Hot Pockets
by katbybee
Summary: The first in a series of shorts I am writing for Camp NaNoWriMo April 2017. (Goal:50,000 words!) These stories will be compiled into my collection called "HH: The War of Which We ARE a Part." This story is one in which a distracted Carter…well, just please read and review! Happy to be back and writing…will continue with updates on other stories as I am able. Hugs
1. Genius at Work

Andrew Carter was in his favorite place in the world…well in his current world, that is. His favorite place was on the reservation, tending to his horses, but that was a whole other place and time, before the war. For now, his bomb factory was his place and his world.

He hummed quietly to himself as he breathed in the familiar scents of cordite and chemicals. Most of the men he was stationed with here in Stalag 13 truly had no understanding of what drove the the young demolitions expert to obsess over his creations the way he did. The only one who came close was his best friend, Peter Newkirk. Peter understood, because he had grown up on the hard streets of Stepney, with a deep appreciation of the fact that a good weapon could save your life. He _got_ the beauty of a fine blade. He enjoyed the silky feel of sharpened steel, honed to perfection.

It was exactly how Carter felt about each and every detonator and explosive he built and set off. Everything had to be exactly right, every time. Every trigger was a piece of art. Every bomb, no matter how jury-rigged it might look, was a master-piece. Each component spoke to him, each guided him, told him exactly where he needed to place it in order to make the most effective weapon he could.

At times, things went wrong, and exploded when they weren't supposed to. Most of the time, this happened because Andrew had to deal with black market and inferior ingredients for his bombs, or because he generally had to measure his ingredients somewhat imprecisely. He knew his teammates sometimes doubted his abilities because of the fact that he tended to blow himself up on a fairly regular basis, but the truth was, Andrew Carter was not a careless man when it came to dealing with his explosives; at least not _usually_ …

What made today different was that Andrew had been up for the past 27 hours straight making small detonation packages for a very large joint underground mission the team would be participating in three nights from now. He had already made nearly 400 packages, and he was exhausted. His head was swimming with the details of the mission, as well as with keeping a close eye on his chemicals. The most dangerous part of producing the explosive packages was over. Now he was simply making up some miniature "popper packets" to serve as distractions.

These packets were exactly what they sounded like-squares of silk filled with a handful of tiny gunpowder "poppers" about the size of chocolate chips. When thrown on the ground, they made an impressive amount of noise, and even had been known to start small fires. As distractions went, they were just about perfect. Carter had packed the last square of silk and placed it in the last backpack when he realized he had a handful of poppers leftover. He yawned sleepily and shoved them into his back pocket. He would store them in his footlocker, where he kept his other various and sundry leftover explosives.


	2. Details, Details

Carter stretched his tired back and packed away his supplies. He planned to let Col. Hogan know he was finished and then catch some shut-eye. He gave his lab the once-over to make sure that everything was in place before he shut off the lamp and stepped out of his sanctuary. He resumed his humming with a tired smile. He felt slightly euphoric, the way he always did when he had finished a tough job and done it well.

Carter was not a man who expected praise out of others, but he did have high expectations of himself; something few others suspected. This was one reason he often seemed melancholy, because he was very hard on himself. He was often frustrated that he had to hide many of his abilities and talents from his teammates to maintain his cover as an active code-talker. Code-talkers were highly prized as prisoners by the Nazis, and it was imperative both for Carter's and for Papa Bear's sake that no one ever find out that there was a code-talker stationed at Stalag 13. It would literally mean Carter's life. Therefore, there were many assignments he undertook that even Col. Hogan knew nothing about.1

His thoughts strayed to his last assignment as he headed towards the radio was at his desk, transcribing a message. _He remembered sitting at that same desk a few nights before, translating a message for British High Command from German into Lakota and then sending it on to London. The scariest part for him was not worrying whether he got the message right. That was a piece of pie. The part that always scared him was that one day he would not be able to get Kinch_ _'s desk and radio back into exact order, and the big man would catch on to his game. If that ever happened, he knew that Command would have no choice but to pull one of them out of Papa Bear's operation…_

Carter was startled out of his dark thoughts by Kinch himself. "Earth to Carter!"

"Sorry, Kinch, guess I was daydreaming."

Kinch smiled at him. "Yeah, guess you were." He handed Carter a slip of paper. "Would you see that Col. Hogan gets that message? Looks like it's pretty hot."

"Sure thing! I'm headed up-top right now anyway."

Carter took the note and quickly climbed the ladder leading to the barracks above. He popped through the bunk entrance only to find the room empty except for Louis LeBeau, who was fussing over some concoction he was stirring on the stove.

Andrew sauntered over to Louis, sniffing the air appreciatively. "What'cha makin' Louis? It smells great!"

Louis smiled at his friend. "I am making _coq au vin_. You should know what that smells like by now."

"Oh, sure I do, but I just like hearing you say it! Anyway, I told you before, I never had French food before I met you. By the way, where's Col. Hogan? There's a message from London for him."

LeBeau wrinkled his brow for a moment. "I think he went to see Sgt. Wilson, but I'm not sure. You could try over there."

"Okay. I'll try there first. Thanks." And with that, Andrew left and headed out the door.

1 See "Honorable Lies"


	3. Oops

Although it was a lovely day outside for once, Carter took no notice. He was still too wrapped up in his plans and formulas to take much notice of his surroundings. He was vaguely aware of other prisoners around him, and that it must be recreation period as there was a volleyball game and a baseball game taking place, as well as a few men tossing around a football. He headed quickly towards the Infirmary, not realizing that the baseball game had broken up and a few men were simply throwing pitches back and forth.

Andrew broke into a jog just as Peter fired a scorcher towards Danny Olsen's outstretched glove. Unfortunately, Carter ran between the two players just at that moment. Both men yelled a warning, but were shocked when the ball hit Carter square on the seat of his coveralls, and even more surprised when Carter suddenly jumped and yelped in pain as the ball connected with the popper packets and created a spectacularly loud and smoky display!

Too late, Carter remembered the poppers as he rolled frantically in the dirt, trying to make sure his coveralls didn't catch fire. His backside stung like hell, and he was sure he had gotten a decent burn. About the time he finished cussing himself out, Newkirk and Olsen had reached him, along with most every other prisoner in camp. He could hear Newkirk hollering for somebody to get Wilson and Col. Hogan.

Carter was very happy he was face-down, because, not only did his butt hurt, but well, how embarrassing! And yet…lack of sleep had apparently made him punchy, because the more Andrew thought about it, the funnier it got. And he began to giggle. Hysterically. To the point he scared Newkirk, who had been kneeling next to him, trying to make sure he was okay.

Apparently, some of the poppers hadn't blown up; because suddenly, as Wilson knelt and began ministering to Andrew's burns, and Hogan began trying to sort out what exactly had happened to his hapless sergeant THIS time; Newkirk's sharp eyes spotted the source of the problem. He picked out a couple of poppers from the remains of Carter's pocket and turned suspicious green eyes on his best friend.

He frowned at Andrew. "You 'ave got to be kiddin' me, mate! You blew yer own arse off with _these_?" The Brit's eyes danced merrily as he grinned wickedly.

Sighing, as he listened to the laughter rippling through the crowd, Carter realized he would not be living down this latest escapade for a very long time.

The End


End file.
